Father's Day is coming up. It's the best of days and the
worst of days.

It's the worst of days for the simple reason that I don't
have a father anymore. Twenty years ago last week, Joseph Newton Heller Sr. died after playing his last
game of softball at the age of 60. He didn't get a hit. If
he hadn't died, that would have really ruined his day. He was a pretty
competitive guy, as is his third son.

When I posted something about him on Facebook last week, a teammate
of his posted back a black and white photo of him from the newspaper posing with the
guys. I come from the kind of a town where who wins the softball championship is still news.

His teammate wrote: "Anyone who played softball in Escanaba
knew Joe Heller. A great guy."

I appreciated that. I miss him a lot. He wasn't the best dad
in the world. He wasn't the worst. Like most dads, at times he was both. His temper
could make us kids quake. And yet there was nothing better than his raucous
laugh when he played board games with us at the dining room table. I find
myself wishing I had his laugh so my kids could remember it when I'm gone. Alas,
I don't. They'll have to settle for remembering a wry chuckle.

Not a day has passed in 20 years that I haven't spoken to
him. I tend to do that – speak out loud or in my mind to people who are gone.
Maybe that makes me weird. I don't know. Whatever the case, it keeps them alive
for me. Part of my life.

I guess, in a sense, he really isn't gone then, so I take
back what I said about not having a dad anymore. I have one. He's just not
here.

That said, his physical absence and the fact that he didn't
live long enough to know his grandkids can make Father's Day a bit melancholy.

He'd have loved Sam, Annie and
Henry. Sam is smart and wickedly sarcastic. Annie's beauty and grace would have
melted his heart in two seconds flat. And Henry, my god, the kid is a clone of
me, in looks and general weirdness. Dad would have liked that. He'd have liked
them all.

Those three are why Father's Day is the best of days.

On Sunday, they'll grumble out of bed earlier than they'd
like, and together with the lovely yet formidable Marcia, they'll cook the kind
of breakfast I shouldn't eat anymore. French toast, patty sausage, sweet rolls,
fresh fruit and coffee.

Then they'll give me hand-made cards, even though all of
them are teenagers and lost interest in doing it years ago. There will be a
present or two as well. For some reason, Mother's Day and Father's Day have
become like mini-birthdays.

Then I'll get to sit around all day in the sun, if there is
any, and read a book, something I seldom have time for anymore. And then in the
evening they'll cook me a nice steak dinner and Marcia will make me a dry
martini. With the good gin.

I love it all. But none of it is why I like Father's Day so
much. I like it because it reminds me how lucky I am to have three great kids in my life, a
feeling that grows sharper each year they get closer to leaving.

Remember, they're teenagers. It's almost time for them to
fly.

I shudder to think of it.

That's why I'm starting to think we have this Father's Day
thing all wrong. Father's Day, after all, is when kids celebrate their dads.